


Rest

by mitzvahmelting



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Ethics, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Character, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Philosophy, Religion, spirituality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 11:58:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8844016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitzvahmelting/pseuds/mitzvahmelting
Summary: The little blue planet rotates slowly beneath the expanse of empty universe dark and limitless above. Batman stands in the privacy of his personal quarters and watches the celestial bodies move. 
  For hours.  And… hours.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Starlightify](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlightify/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [休息](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11623881) by [mlest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlest/pseuds/mlest)



> so starlightify inspired me to make all of my characters unapologetically jewish and queer with mental health issues. it was a great opportunity to bring some of my culture and spirituality into my writing. thanks starlightify for all of your work, and for engaging so thoroughly with the tikkun olam concept. 
> 
> admittedly, this story might not be your cup of tea. but i wanted to gift it to you anyway because i don't think i would have written a story like this if not for your writing. i hope to write much more like it.

There is a sound he doesn’t hear anymore.

There are two hundred seventy-three Justice League members, and fourteen able men and women patrolling the streets of Gotham.

And he doesn’t hear the suffering anymore.

He doesn’t wake each morning struck with guilt for the lives lost during the hours he was obligated to sleep.  He doesn’t carry Atlas’ burden on his shoulders. The world is quiet, and the metahumans are fast enough and strong enough to accomplish ten, twenty times the work that Batman ever did.

The world is quiet.

His tasks are managerial, or advisory.  He is a figurehead.  An officer, not a soldier.

The little blue planet rotates slowly beneath the expanse of empty universe dark and limitless above. Batman stands in the privacy of his personal quarters and watches the celestial bodies move.

For hours.  And… hours.

The hum of electronic equipment. The texture of the Watchtower floor beneath ungloved fingers. Rugged metal and the heat of his thighs pressed against his stomach. The tension in his chest as he imagines being sucked out into the vacuum of space.

One must wonder whether, if not for the oppression of guilt forcing his body, Bruce Wayne would have succumbed to listless inactivity long ago.

By self-medicating or masochism, surely. By self-destruction and suicide, perhaps. The bane of any emotionally susceptible man will always be this: loneliness, obsolescence, weariness.

And then… silence.

A whisper of movement as the door slides open, and then shut. A floating figure glides into the room and comes to land on the floor next to where Bruce sits, before crouching down to join him with a soft “Hello.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Bruce whispers back. His focus is stuck on the distant stars; he can’t manage to look at his companion with any more than his peripheral vision, but that is enough. “There isn’t time.  People need you.”

With a rueful smile, Kal says, “Life would hardly be worth living, if I couldn’t spare time for the people I love.”

“Hmm,” replies Bruce.  The cosmos continues to move ever slowly. Kal’s eyes twinkle in reflection of the Earth below.

“You’re forgetting to eat, again,” says Kal. “Cafeteria records say you haven’t checked in once today.”

“I have dry rations.”

The superman sighs, and says, “I know you do.”  He allows the lie to go uncorrected. 

In the silence between pieces of their conversation, Bruce is able to hear the mechanical hum of the Watchtower again, though it had faded to the background.  The thought of food only turns his stomach. 

It’s been so long since Alfred’s passing. Since the last time his successors had maintained the farce of family.  Or…

“Tim said he’s worried about you,” murmurs Kal, “and you know if _Tim_ said something, the whole lot of them must have been tittering about it for months.”

Or perhaps it’s all in Bruce’s head. Still, the weight of solitude presses in from all sides, blanket of fog, colorless and insidious and poisoning the air. Breathing it in at all hours.

“May I touch you?” asks Kal.

Without responding, Bruce covers his face with his ungloved hands, closes his eyes and shuts out, for a moment, the expansion of the universe, the starlight.  Exhales slowly as much of the fog as he can manage to evacuate from his lungs – but it’s hardly effective. Kal’s palm comes to rest on his shoulder, and he guides Bruce closer, steady and gentle.

Bruce lets his knees fall, lets gravity pull him into the demigod’s arms. Whimpers once, unconsciously, as the skin of his cheek meets the familiar texture of alien cloth.

And the cowl is peeled away from his hair, and fingertips comb gently through.

“I don’t feel,” he whispers, “like myself.”  That is hardly a revelation, though. Over the years, he’s lost track of the parts of himself that felt familiar.

Kal hums, and presses his lips absently against Bruce’s forehead. “You haven’t seemed quite right, lately.”

In the absence of fog, in the vacuum of his lungs, emerges a thought. The sort of thought one can only have when in this sort of state, pressed close to Kal-El’s body, and watching the earth move from a distance.

“… _vayish'bot bayom hash'vi'i mikol m'la'kh'to asher asah_ ,” recites Bruce in whisper.

“ _And on the seventh day…_ ” Kal replies.  “What brings that to mind?”

“Why would he rest…?” He pulls away and sits up on his knees, to look at Kal. The room is still in shadow, and the white of Kal’s skin is softened in the ambient light of the earth.  “It seems so arbitrary, especially considering… if he’d worked the seventh day, do you think he could have rid the world of evil? Or suffering?”

“Bruce…”

“So much _responsibility,_ Kal, and yet he rests! Why would he rest…?” he trails off, rubbing his eyes to keep his vision clear.

Kal smiles, the sort of private, sad smile he always shares with Bruce. “I have a hunch, what the Rabbi might say.”

“Do enlighten me.”

“He rests…” Kal says, “because he’s tired.”

For a moment, Bruce frowns at him.  Then he looks back out there, at the sparkle of Mars on the horizon, and the other planets besides.  “It seems irresponsible,” he says, finally.

“Take it up with the man upstairs,” says Kal. He’s reaching out again to touch Bruce, to trail fingers down his shoulder.  Tactile connection, or a reminder of his presence, or a token of comfort. “We can rest, too.”

“You can’t,” he bites out.

“I can.”

“People will die.”

“Yes, they will.  Bruce—” and Bruce tries to pull away but Kal has a grip on his shoulder, and the restriction spikes his heartrate, and the frequency of his breathing, and the amount of fog in his system. “We’re not gods,” Kal tells him.

“I know that.”

“We can’t save everyone.”

“I know that.”

“It’s okay to rest—”

“The world is _burning_ , Clark!” The Batman breaks free and spins to face him, fearsome and righteous even with the tremor in his voice.  “People are suffering, and you think it’s okay for me to turn my back on them because… because I’m _tired?_ Because I’m—I’m _sad?_ Because I’d so much rather indulge in warmth and companionship than listen to _one more person_ scream in pain—you think I have the right to—to—”

Were it anyone else, they would have lunged forward to embrace him, to hold him and keep him from losing himself in anguish. But this is Kal, who is respectful. Who is listening to what Bruce has to say. Who waits patiently as the man sighs and composes himself and rubs his eyes again to keep his vision clear.

As they pass to the dark side of the earth, the lights of the room begin to rise to compensate, settling a glow about the ceiling as if to reflect the glow of human creation visible in the night.

In the silence, Kal asks, “Is that what you feel you’ve been called to do?”

Bruce swallows, and his breathing stutters.  He asks, “what?”

“Is this your purpose, Bruce? Is this the reason you’re here? To work and work until you die of exhaustion—is that your calling?”

“How am I supposed to know—”

“Is there a voice in your head telling you that you can never stop?”

There is a sound he doesn’t hear anymore.

Bruce shuts his eyes. “I used to. I used to hear it, and now… the kids are competent, the next generation is…”

“You don’t hear it anymore,” Kal finishes, gently.

Bruce sighs. “Maybe I’m only hearing what I want to hear.”  He lifts his eyes to meet Kal’s, and says, “This problem is only… tangentially related to the one you came to speak with me about.”

“How so?”

“You came here because you were concerned about my…” Bruce looks away, at the floor, and continues, “I admit I am unwell, and that my exhaustion is definitely more than just… existential weariness.  I don’t feel like myself.  I would like to have… feeling, again, whether or not retirement is on the table.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Perhaps that’s something you can discuss further with Dr. Thompkins.”

“Yes.”

Clark is looking at him, now. Smiling half-mischievous with his eyes brimming with affection, now that the matter is settled, now that Bruce seems to be looking toward the future. It’s always the way with Clark… he takes over from Kal the moment things fall back into familiar rhythm. Friendship, love. 

Clark opens his arms.  “Care to… indulge, some more?”

Bruce looks at him, calculating, and then makes a face. “I shouldn’t,” he says, “you have people to save.”

“Funny,” Clark smirks, “because I’m _pretty sure_ no one paged me from monitor duty, so I’m guessing the others have it handled.”

“The monitors are only so precise—”

“Bruce,” says Clark, “please. Just relax. Just for a little while.”

As soon as Bruce mutters an “alright,” Clark has already scooped him up (and bless him, Clark never touches without permission), and they’ve settled on the bed, curled up and close, watching the planets move. It’s warm, and soft. Bruce can feel Clark’s breath at the nape of his neck.

“I’ll call Leslie tomorrow,” Bruce whispers.  Lets his eyes shut, lets his cheek brush against the pillowcase.  “But, for now, I might sleep a little.  You don’t have to stay.”

Lips pressed chaste against his shoulder. “I’ll be here.”

Bruce shuts his eyes, and lets rest take him.

**Author's Note:**

> please let me know what you thought in the comments!
> 
> (also yes i used transliterated hebrew text, but that's mostly because formatting was easier and so was reading for english speakers.)
> 
> talk to me on [my tumblr](mitzvahmelting.tumblr.com)


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